Living with Our Parents’ Blame: A Love Note to My Fellow Prodigal Kids

It’s been four and a half months since I came out to my parents. Four and a half months since I spit out the secret I’d been carrying like a poison pill under my tongue for years. Since this whole crazy, dangerous, exhilarating, beautiful adventure — life — began.

Four and a half months, too, since my parents cut me off. 

A lot has happened since then. But I’m not here today to tell that story. People like me, people from extreme religious families who’ve been cut off (or cut themselves off), we’ve all got our stories. No, I’m here to talk about how we can cope with the other story.

The story our parents tell about us.

We have all heard this story, too.

To be cut off from your family because you no longer live by their traditions — it’s a type of life like no other. Some of us escaped abusive religious houses. Others stopped believing in our family’s faiths and either spoke out or were found out. Some came out with a gender or sexuality different from what was accepted. So many reasons.

Some people might find this strong, inspirational, badass (AND IT IS thankyouverymuch!) But many of our families see us living our truths, choose to cut us off, and then paint us as the villains. They come from places where religion or conformity is everything. If you leave or reject the faith, it doesn’t just mean you’re going to die, it means they’re bad parents. They question everything they thought they knew about themselves and us. They feel as if we have died. That is their side of the story, for many. Yet it sounds like:

“You are so selfish. What you are doing is filthy.”

“You are killing us by rejecting our faith/by living your truth.”

“What have we done to deserve this? Why are you punishing us?”

“We have done nothing to you. This is all in your head.”

“Your mother won’t stop crying.”

 

The other day I read this article by a Christian mother who cut off her gay son. It pierced me right through. This is the part that haunted me.

Perhaps I am writing this is [sic] for myself more than for those who are reading. I have not seen my son in nearly two and a half years now and there are days that the pain is just as fresh as ever. Until now, I have kept this pain inside and shared with only a couple of my closest friends. I am not sure that a day has gone by that I have not shed tears. Sometimes it is a single tear and other days are gut wrenching cries of despair. I have pulled into my driveway with tears blinding my eyes, only to find myself literally screaming and wailing in grief. I’m devastated by our loss; his loss.

I know this is how my mother feels, too. I know she cries every day. I know she looks me up obsessively online. I know she calls around asking after me. She texts me asking why are you being selfish and I taught you right from wrong and we only want the best for you. Saying as a mother I have rights to you and you do not, saying I miss you so much, saying can I please just see you, please, please. Saying come back home

After I read that article, I carried the pain of knowing her pain around with me all day, red as hot iron at the bottom of my chest. I have no regrets about telling them who I am. I know so much of what they do and say is inexcusable and horrible. Don’t get me wrong, I know what living this truth is gutsy, pathmaking, beautiful, real; I know it’s right.

And yet I can’t help seeing their side of things. Their story. Which is that their daughter, who was once obedient, loving, and madly in love with God, has told them that she’s the type of person God used to sentence to death. They feel that I have died. They feel this means they failed as parents. They fear for my very soul. They are terrified of my Chinese grandparents and church finding out.

And I know I am not the only one who has felt this too.

 

So I’m saying this for all of us — every apostate I’ve met online and in person, every apostate I’ve yet to meet, every apostate yet to be (welcome to the club, prodiguys and prodigals) — because someone who gets it needs to say it.

Your parents are not hurting because of who you are.
Your parents are hurting because of who they are, because of how they see things, and because of what they cannot see.

Their pain is not your fault. Not your responsibility. Even if it brings you down, know that it’s not on you.

Religious mindsets and groups can blind so many people. It can become someone’s whole identity, and when that happens, going against the grain can make you feel like you’re losing your entire world. So they choose a god or gods over us. So they do what their leaders and texts say they should do.

That is what’s killing them, what’s hurting them, what’s causing them grief.

Not you. Their faith. Their tradition. Their fear. Their belief. Their conformity. Their lack of experience. Their inability to have an open mind. 

What they can’t see is how kickass you are. How much it can take for someone to be open about who they are and what they believe despite the costs. How much resilience and courage you have. The fact that you are creating an example of what it means to live life with joy, risk, strength, and above all, TRUTH for other people. The fact that you showing them who you are can actually be interpreted as an act of love, because if you didn’t care, you wouldn’t show them.

I see that, and I’m mothafuckin proud and glad you’re out here, cause we’re all out here, even if we don’t all know each other quite yet. There’s a lot of us, even if many of us are silent — which is why I’ve decided not to be.

Maybe one day your parents and mine will come to see how much we bring to the world. But for now, we’ve got to know it for them. And I’ll know it with ya.

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